


Mount

by theleaveswant



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Ambition, F/M, Fucking Shelbys, Horseback Riding, In-Laws, Infidelity, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-27 23:46:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2711129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/theleaveswant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's asleep to her left. The baby's asleep in the crib to her right. Esme is awake, staring straight up at the single, forked crack in their bedroom's ceiling plaster.</p><p>(A nocturnal interlude during or just prior to series 2.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mount

**Author's Note:**

> For thatyourefuse, who jumped on board the instant I suggested an Esme/Tommy affair.

John's asleep to her left. The baby's asleep in the crib to her right. Esme is awake, staring straight up at the single, forked crack in their bedroom's ceiling plaster. She wouldn't say she's listening for the creak, not exactly, but she is breathing very quietly and when it happens she holds her breath entirely. Footsteps on old floorboards continue past the closed door to the room at the end of the corridor. She doesn't look at John's watch on the nightstand; the exact time doesn't matter, only that all the lamps are out. Everyone else is in bed and the house is dark as the womb by the time Tommy Shelby comes home.

Her hands slide from where they're folded on her belly to press into the mattress at her sides. It's too dark to flip a coin so sets her own wager: if John's the first to make a noise, she'll get up. If the baby's first, she'll stay. She has a very clear picture in her head of what will happen if she gets up, or at least of what she'd like to happen.

Esme will slip silently from the bed and walk barefoot down the hall to the room Tommy's using. He'll look up at her from where he's sitting, shoes off, jacket off, collar and waistcoat unbuttoned but otherwise still dressed. His eyes will narrow--she'll see this no matter how low the lamp is burning--but before he makes up his mind to say something she'll be in front of him. She'll gather up her nightgown, fingers spider-walking the thin fabric up to bunch at her hips, and step forward again so that she's standing just past his slightly splayed knees.

Tommy will cock his head, considering her, then slide a little lower in his chair. Esme will step forward one more time so she can climb astride his lap. He'll spread his hands out away from her to make clear that this is her show and she'd better sell it. She'll get no further help from him.

His cock won't be more than half-hard when she gets it out of his trousers but she'll fix that, working him with both hands in that twisting way she's always found effective. His breath will come deeper and quicker as she strokes him. The set of his jaw will grow firmer as he grits his teeth, refusing sound. His eyes will keep watching her in the same critical, contemplative way.

When his cock is good and hard she'll rock up and forward to position the head between her wet lips--lips she'd feel are wet now, as she thinks this, even if her fingers weren't stroking them teasingly--and slide down as far and as slowly as the position will allow. Tommy's eyelids will barely flutter.

In her room, in her bed, Esme's breath hitches as she hooks two fingers inside herself, as deep as she can reach. In her mind, in Tommy's lap, she starts to ride him. She starts slow, her hips rolling the way they would on horseback, the way her muscles move without thinking and her bones will remember long after she's dead. She grinds her mound against her palm, against his pelvis, against the memory of a coarse blanket over blood bay withers, chafing her thighs while she shuddered out her first climax. Tommy will let her ride, seeming nearly as unconcerned as the horse did--until her husband rolls over.

The grunt and rustle of John turning onto his side should be her cue to get up and put her plans into action, except John is awake and he's looking at her, his eyes flickering from her face down the length of her arm to the hand between her legs. She can't just walk out on John with no explanation so she does the next best thing: she rolls on top of him and up onto her knees, jerking his rapidly hardening cock until it's useful and putting it to work. 

"Blimey," John pants as Esme rides him fast and hard. "You're not fucking around."

Esme clamps a hand over John's mouth and concentrates on climaxing as quickly as possible; John barely manages to catch up and spend before she climbs off of him, back onto her side of the bed.

"You could do that more often, I wouldn't complain."

"Shut up," Esme says, and ruffles John's hair before she gets up to go use the toilet. 

She steps out into the corridor and freezes, the door half-closed behind her, because she just about crashes into Tommy coming the other way.

There's a lamp on in the kitchen, throwing just enough light back this way for Tommy to take a good look at her tousled hair and the flushed skin showing above the neck of her nightgown, unbuttoned far enough that it barely covers her breasts. He flicks a glance toward John, over her shoulder through the gap in the door. His eyes return to Esme's face and he studies her for a long, quiet moment. 

Esme suppresses a shiver and flashes him a feral smile. She tugs one shoulder of her nightgown back up to where it belongs before sidling past him down the corridor, closer than she really needs to given the width of the space, and she swears she hears him inhale as she passes, one deep draw of air through the nose. 

Esme licks her lips and grins. Next time she'll take easier odds.


End file.
